Secret of the White Rose (5 page)

Mulvaney put it more bluntly. “This opportunity with Bingham will either make or break your career—and you’ve got no choice in the matter. In fact, you’ve got a meeting with him this afternoon at one o’clock.”

I stared at him blankly for some moments before recovering myself.

“I knew Alistair planned to make my involvement official,” I said in a low voice, “but not at this level.”

Mulvaney chuckled. “Your professor has his share of influence, I’m sure. But he isn’t responsible for your current predicament. You’ve the judge’s widow herself to thank for this.”

“But I barely exchanged a word with her last night,” I said with a frown.

“Then you otherwise made an impression—or Alistair secured her request. I take it they’re acquainted.”

“Alistair went to law school with Judge Jackson. I understand they grew apart over the years, but their wives remained friends.”

“Alistair’s wife?” Mulvaney’s eyes widened. “I thought they were divorced.”

“I don’t think so,” I hastened to say. I knew little of Alistair’s estranged wife, except that she now resided permanently abroad—and had, ever since their son Teddy was killed while on an archeological expedition in Greece three years earlier. Though I wasn’t privy to the details, I knew it wasn’t uncommon for the loss of a child to cause an irreparable rift between the parents. I also suspected that Alistair’s womanizing had something to do with it.

“Is the Nineteenth going to be involved in some capacity?” I asked.

“Not yet. The commissioner hopes it will be a simple case, since the judge had more than his share of death threats on record—many of them from known anarchists. He believes that with enough men making the necessary inquiries, the judge’s murderer—and any anarchist conspiracy—will readily come to light.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re off to a good start on this case, if you already disagree with the commissioner.” A look of exasperation crossed Mulvaney’s face. “Out with it, Ziele. Either something you learned last night troubles you—or else you’re being hoodwinked by your professor’s malarkey.”

I smiled, knowing that Mulvaney never had much tolerance for Alistair’s criminal theories. Alistair believed we needed to understand why particular criminals behaved as they did if we were to apprehend them more efficiently—and ultimately rehabilitate them. Once we understood more about the criminal mind, Alistair argued, then we would solve crimes faster—and one day stop them altogether.

But for the more pragmatic Mulvaney, the
why
was unimportant; what mattered was ensuring that the criminal couldn’t strike again. And he believed that was best accomplished by jail cell bars—not education and understanding.

Once, I had been of the same mind as Mulvaney. But time—not to mention a handful of tough cases—had taught me to recognize there was value in understanding the enemy we faced. I’d learned that the behavior criminals exhibited at their crime scenes revealed important information—sometimes with more clarity than traditional clues. In two very different cases, I had made use of Alistair’s teachings to solve a brutal crime—and if I wasn’t a true believer in criminal theory, I at least considered it one of many valuable tools at my disposal. What I’d learned was that few people—however well educated—had all the right answers. Success hinged on formulating the right questions.

And I had many questions about Judge Jackson’s case.

I briefly filled Mulvaney in on the crime scene at the judge’s home, sharing all the relevant details about the Bible and the white rose found by the judge’s body. “Plus, there was a rose drawn on a sheet of music found among his death-threat letters. I think Alistair saw the rose, too,” I said, “and is holding back what he knows.” I had an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of my stomach as I said it.

Mulvaney chortled. “That’s nothing new.” He leaned back in his chair, flexing his fingers. “Why don’t you just ask Alistair about the symbol drawn on the music? I’ve no doubt he’ll have some fancy explanation for it. Do
you
really think the rose is important?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

He ran his fingers over the stubble covering his bald head. “Look, this case is going to be politically complicated—no argument there. But as a murder inquiry, it should be cut-and-dried. This judge presided over the most controversial anarchist trial New York has seen since President McKinley was assassinated. So you’ve no need to look beyond the anarchists.” He made a noise of disgust. “They come to this country with their talk of violence and bloodshed. I say, if they don’t like it here, why don’t they go back where they came from?”

He paused a moment, struggling with his emotions. Mulvaney had made something of himself from the worst of beginnings—eleven siblings and only their widowed mother to support them—and he had little sympathy for those with a lesser work ethic.

“My point is,” he said, leaning in, “don’t get distracted by some fancy symbol or strange Bible you think you’ve noticed. These items were planted there by a man … by an anarchist. You’ve just got to find him.”

“I know it was a human hand that killed the judge; I don’t forget that for an instant. Yet we both know that often the simple solution is also the wrong one.”

There was an uncomfortable moment between us. Just this past spring, Mulvaney had made such a mistake—and it had caused the only rift between us in our ten-year history.

“Look, Ziele,” he finally said, his eyes meeting my own, “I brought you back to the city to work with me because you’ve got better skills and instincts than any detective I know. Focus on the real threats that surrounded the judge—and that continue to surround all of us in this city.” He spread his hands wide. “They call themselves anarchists. What kind of people are they, that they value their ideas more than human life? That they’d plant a bomb to take the life of an innocent child?”

“I don’t understand men like Drayson,” I said. “But you also know they’re not all like that. Remember Samuel Lyzke from the old neighborhood? He joined the anarchist circles to fight corrupt government. He was just an ordinary man who wanted better conditions for working people.”

Mulvaney’s expression softened. “Sam is one of the good ones.”

I remembered Sam as a peace-loving idealist. And I knew his weapon of choice would be words, not dynamite—for he was a dreamer, not an actor.

“It’s not their
ideas
I have a problem with; it’s their violence and killing. When they take a human life,” Mulvaney was saying, “damn their ideas. They become no different from an ordinary killer. They deserve what’s coming.”

The official response would be to hunt down every anarchist in the city—of that I was well aware. Yet this killer had eschewed the anarchist weapon of choice—dynamite—in favor of the knife. He had quite possibly sent personal threats to the judge, and then left the ambiguous symbols of a Bible and a white rose by his handiwork. Perhaps these acts had some meaning within the anarchist community. Mulvaney was right. The threat of further violence was real.

I looked up and saw Mulvaney was regarding me with sympathy in his deep blue eyes. “You’re in the thick of it now. Let me know how I can help you.”

I gave him a smile of reassurance. “It’s an opportunity like no other, right?” Then I checked my watch. “Can you arrange for me to get into the Tombs to see Drayson before I meet with the commissioner?”

Mulvaney’s eyes widened. “You want to talk with that bastard now?”

I nodded. People already suspected him of orchestrating the murder from his jail cell—and before I could begin to come to grips with this case, I needed to see him for myself. And I wanted Alistair to come with me.

In a matter of minutes, all the arrangements were made. I left Mulvaney and headed downtown to the Tombs—into the bowels of hell itself.

CHAPTER 4

The Tombs, Centre Street. 10:30
A.M.

There was no place in New York more repulsive than the Tombs, the city prison where Al Drayson was being held in a solitary basement cell. It was a new building, constructed just four years ago on the same site as the original Tombs prison. In fact, from the street, it was almost a thing of beauty—a majestic French chateau dominated by a handsome stone turret. But for those of us who had seen firsthand what lived within, even the fanciest exterior made no difference. The misery of those incarcerated within seemed to permeate its very walls and become palpable—even before a visitor like myself entered from Centre Street through the eight-inch-thick iron-and-wood door. In reality, it wasn’t misery I sensed—it was the smell of unwashed bodies as well as vomit, feces, and urine. The putrid odor was unmistakable, even at the entrance door.

I presented my credentials to a dour-faced guard dressed entirely in black. He admitted me with a terse nod, saying only, “Jenkins will take you down.”

Upon hearing his words, a hunched older man rose up from a wooden stool, jangling his large ring of keys. His voice was a hoarse rasp when he said, “Come.”

I followed him first through the main hall, where prisoners convicted of relatively minor crimes were housed. The Tombs was divided by level, with criminals placed according to the severity of their crimes. Those here on the first floor enjoyed the relative comfort of the single wood-burning stove in the center of the room. Most of them regarded me silently as I passed by—though no end of catcalls came from the levels overhead. Buggerer. Twat. Nancy-boy. I’d learned to ignore the curses and name-calling during my visits here, so the words that followed me down the hall were nothing to me. What I had to steel myself for was the basement—an area marked by the most miserable of conditions and reserved for the most depraved of criminals.

The moment I descended the stairs, I was overwhelmed by the rancid smell of rot. The Tombs had been built on swampland, a legacy that gave its porous stone foundation a perpetual wetness. And so the stench of feces and urine mingled with that of the damp, which created a vile stink that threatened to overpower me with each succeeding step. The bowels of the Tombs were fit only for the rats … one of which scampered in front of us, so close that Jenkins nearly kicked it. Jenkins cackled—a hoarse noise that sent more of a chill down my spine than either the fetid smell or the vermin had already done.

By the time we were halfway down, I heard voices from the cells below. Alistair was here. I had asked him to give me fifteen minutes alone with Drayson before he joined me; I should have known he would be too impatient to honor that request. But when Jenkins and I reached the bottom floor, it was not Drayson with whom Alistair was engaged in animated conversation.

Alistair stood before the cell of a gaunt man with deep-sunken eyes. The man was mesmerized by Alistair’s words—or perhaps, instead, by Alistair himself. A bath and a few hours’ sleep had restored Alistair’s composure entirely; he was now dressed in his usual impeccable fashion: a fine gray wool suit complemented his black cashmere-blend coat and paisley scarf, and he carried a satchel made of the finest leather and brass. He took notes in a matching leather-bound notebook using his new Waterman fountain pen—the kind that contained its own ink.

The imprisoned man gawked openly at Alistair. “So all I gotta do is answer some questions and you’ll help me get a new trial?” He was hopeful and incredulous at the same time.

“I’ll do what I can,” Alistair answered in his calmest voice. “It will be up to the judge, of course, but I can make sure your argument is at least heard.”

The prisoner made a hoarse guffaw. “That’s just a fancy way of sayin’ you’ll try. Guess it’s better than my good-for-nothing lawyer did first time round, though.”

Alistair smiled and jotted something down in his notebook. “I just need to double-check your story, Mr.—?”

“Hayes. Rawlin’ Hayes.” The man clenched a fist with grimy fingers around the bars that separated him from Alistair and leaned his face in. “Just ask around in Five Points and anybody’ll tell you: I didn’t commit no attempted murder. ’Cause I never attempt to kill nobody.” His lips spread into a wide grin that revealed a mouth almost wholly devoid of teeth. “If I want somebody dead, there’s no attempting about it.”

No wonder he appeared not to have eaten in months: if prison fare wasn’t bad enough, he had no teeth with which to eat it. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if poor health ended up cheating Alistair from whatever he wished to learn from this particular prisoner. The foul air and bone-chilling damp made for deplorable living conditions—ones that even healthy men would find a challenge to survive. And I suspected that Rawlin’ Hayes had not been a picture of health to begin with.

Alistair, now aware of my presence, glanced toward me and nodded slightly before returning his attention to the prisoner.

“Thank you, Mr. Hayes; I promise you I’ll take a look at your case.”

Alistair turned toward me, and even in the dim light, I noted that his cheeks were flushed despite the cold. He was in his element, almost entirely unaware of our grim surroundings—including Jenkins, the guard who hovered over us, anxious to move us along.

“You boys ready?” Jenkins asked. “No need to stick around in a place like this.”

At my sign, he led us down a hallway that grew even darker as we approached the end. This is where prisoners sentenced to solitary confinement were held; with windowless cells and thick wood-and-iron doors, there was no light whatsoever but for the feeble glow of Jenkins’s lantern.